Hitting The Bottle

Hitting the Bottle

First thing in the morning, I think about it. Last thing before bed, I turn to it. It gives me comfort, warmth, and a feeling of well-being. I’ve started hitting the bottle. I broke new ground yesterday when, for the first time, I smuggled the bottle into the car. I stashed it beside my driving foot as I taxied to 2 schools. I felt naked, staggering from car to school gate to retrieve my flat mate’s daughter, minus my trusty bottle. Bottie awaited my return to the car. “She’s not hurting anything,” I rationalized. “I’m sure other people drive with their bottles, too.”

 

15 minutes later, we arrive at Fiona and Finley’s school. Once again, I leave Bottie next to the driver's side door in the Honda. “She’ll be fine without me. Or rather, I’ll be fine without her. I can survive another 10 minutes without Bottie.” The muddled thoughts of an addict. Am I addicted? I do feel a quiet pull, an urge -the need for Bottie. 

Back at the house, I cradle Bottie and lovingly set her on the bench (Kiwi for “counter”). I can top her up later. Right now, I’ve another addiction to feed: The Pumpkin Thing. Oh, yeah – a quarter chunk of fresh, orange pumpkin rests in the fridge, begging for transformation. Total gourd makeover. “What shall I be today?” says Pumpkin. “Fairy princess? Barack Obama? An All Black [NZ’s rugby team]?” Hmmm… I consult cooks.com for inspiration, maybe even for a recipe I’ll obey (I rarely follow recipes, regarding them more as kernels of ideas than a fully-popped bag ‘o corn). I microwave the pumpkin wedge into submission to soften its hard flesh. The kitchen starts to smell like American Thanksgiving, like Christmas, like comfort. I discard the stringy bits, then scoop and mash as Amy’s 5-year-old daughter watches from the other side of the bench. I separate rind from orange flesh, flicking bits of green into the sink. How a country as civilized as New Zealand can fail to provide residents opportunities to buy canned, pureed pumpkin is beyond my grasp.

I make a loaf of pumpkin-oat-chocolate bread and a batch of pumpkin-raisin muffins. Now, I can return to Bottie. I fill the jug (electric kettle), boil water and refill the rubber reservoir. Accompany me to the couch, my hot, sweet one. The Boyfriend, Pete, would later ask, “Am I being replaced?” Uh, not yet. There’s a fly in this warm-water ointment:

I visit my physiotherapist (physical therapist) friend the next morning to treat the source of my Bottie addiction: a badly sprained ankle - injured more than a week ago while running at The Mount. Michelle examines my bloated “cankle” (the melding of an ankle and a calf- last seen 6 years ago, when I was pregnant with Finley) and says, “It actually looks worse than when I saw you last week.” I disclose my addiction - I’ve been hitting the bottle. “Oh,” she says. “Since it’s still swollen, I wouldn’t recommend heat. Apply ice until the swelling goes down.”  Great. I’ve been decimating my already-munted ankle, inflamed capillary by inflamed capillary.

Farewell for now, old friend

Sexy, eh?

I return home and drain the water from Bottie, leaving her cold, blue and flaccid. Sorry, pal. I’m sure we’ll rendez-vous another day, though I hope not too soon.

I have a new couch buddy: She’s cold and bumpy and makes the blood vessels around my cankle constrict with icy pleasure. She looks like a half-used bag of frozen corn, but she’s much more than that: each of her kernels harbors a tiny therapeutic aid. Come here, Cornie – we have a date.

Happy 50th, Sean

Happy 50^th, Sean

Sean in St. Lucia, West Indies, June, 2003

Today would’ve been my late husband’s 50^th birthday (I can’t believe I’m writing “late” in reference to Sean, because he hated being late). At least, it would’ve been his birthday today in New Zealand. We’re nearly a full day ahead of the United States. This is fitting, because the kids and I are moving ahead in so many ways. Ways Sean would be proud of.

En route to school today, I reminded Fiona and Finley (ages 7 and 5) that today was Daddy’s birthday. “That was fast,” said Fiona. “I wish my birthdays would come that fast!” (Just wait, kid. Your turn will come, when birthdays arrive so quickly they make your head spin). Fiona said, “Can we buy Daddy a cake? We   can let the wind blow out the candles, like it’s his spirit.” Good idea, honey. Finley said, “Can you turn up the radio? I love this song!” I turned up the radio.

I dropped the kids at school and took The Boyfriend, Pete, to breakfast at a café in downtown Mount Maunganui. I’d bought one of those half-price Internet coupons that are very popular at the moment, and it had been burning a hole in my wallet for a couple weeks. I told Pete it would’ve been Sean’s birthday and I was planning to pick up cupcakes for the occasion. “I think I have something that would work,” said Pete. He later pulled from his fridge a gorgeous, chocolate-iced banana/pear cake he’d made by sheer coincidence to give the kids and me. 

The sun shone, the temperature climbed to the comfortable mid-60’s (18 degrees Celsius), even though, technically, it’s winter. I didn’t have grand plans for today. Several people have asked if this would be or has been a tough day. It hasn’t. I wondered, too, if I’d be sad.  As a young widow friend who’s also found new love wrote, “Eventually we have to let go of the past and it is easier when we know there is something or someone to hold us into the present and point the direction to the future.”

I enjoyed holding today’s “present.” A sprained ankle forced me to forgo my usual Tuesday morning run with the Mount Joggers. Instead, I spent most of the day with Pete, writing, surfing the ‘Net, sharing pictures (he, of his mum’s house, me, of my house in Spokane). The day was unscripted, unplanned and unremarkable, except for the fact that it was unremarkable. 

Amy added writing to Pete's cake

The kids and I ate the chocolate-iced banana/pear cake with our flatmates, Amy and Blythe. Amy whipped out her cake decorating supplies and wrote, “Happy birthday Sean,” on top. We lighted candles, sang “Happy Birthday,” and brought the cake outside in hopes the wind (representing Sean’s spirit) would snuff the flames. One candle went out. The kids puffed out the rest. The cake was delicious - its moist banana and pear flavors sat happily beneath the chocolate icing, which the kids licked clean before devouring the cake. I asked Fiona and Finley what they’d give Daddy if he were here. “I’d give him wine,” said Fiona, looking about 12 years old in dress-up clothing, lipstick and new, adult-sized teeth. “Daddy liked beer better,” I told her. “Oh, I’d give him beer, then,” said Fiona. Finley said, “I’d give him a ball so he could play with me.”

Blythe, Finley and Fiona blow out the candles

Somewhere, I like to imagine Sean smiling, kicking a soccer ball, throwing back a Guinness. The kids and I can be sad another day. Today, I raise a virtual glass to a man who loved his family, his work and his community. In Sean’s honor, hug your kids a little tighter, kiss your significant other, if you have one, (drink a Guinness, if you're so inclined) and be thankful for whatever good thing happened today.

Reality Bites

Reality Bites

From my perch at the kitchen table of our borrowed bach (holiday home) in Pauanui, I watch rain bucketing outside. It beats down, rapid-firing at the picnic table, creating a pattern of dancing circles on the concrete slab below. The bach abuts an airfield – a grassy strip where rich retirees, hobbyists and tour operators can land their Cessnas, Pipers or Tomahawks in this jewel of a village on New Zealand’s ridiculously green Coromandel Peninsula.

The Boyfriend, Pete, had planned to borrow a 2-seater aircraft (they jokingly refer to them as “bug bashers”) to buzz up for the day. He and a mate would take turns flying the kids, my flatmate, Amy, and I above the Coromandel. Heavy rain and thick clouds have grounded the flight. Bugger.  Sure, the plane ride would’ve been fun, but mostly, I miss Pete. This is ridiculous. We’ve been apart all of – what -20 hours? I’m still enjoying myself, listening to Fiona, Finley and Amy’s daughter, Blythe, explain their drawings, “I love the blobbies,” says Fiona. “They don’t have heads.” I’ve no idea what this means, but the kids do. They’re happy. I’m happy, too, content with this metaphorical slice of cake, even though it lacks the icing (make mine chocolate, please) for which I’ve acquired a strong taste. Now that I’ve savored the drizzly sweetness of affection, the richness of companionship and the zing of love, I’m like chubby Augustus Gloop in the Willy Wonka factory, unable to resist chocolate icing and return to the average-ness of “plain-as” (“___ -as is a Kiwi saying, as in, “Sweet as; Not to be confused with “ass.”) cake. And you know what happened to Augustus, don’t you? He fell into the chocolate river and got sucked into a pipe. Reality bites, Augustus.

I’m not pining, I’m projecting – trying to shine a spotlight on an un-seeable future. If I miss Pete after 20 hours, or 2 days, or 2 weeks, how twitchy and bitchy would I be, spending 2 months apart? How about 2 years?  I was initially unwilling to ask tough questions required of a long-term relationship. I wanted to remain in the here-and now. To remain rooted in this iteration of dating like teenagers. “Do you like Earth, Wind & Fire? So do I! Do you like Thai food? So do I!” But even New Zealand, for all its back-to-a-simpler-era charm, lacks a time machine. This is not 1987. And we’re not 17 (although we both admit love has made us feel that way).

I’ve recently relented on my “no tough questions” policy. Because each day this “thing” (whatever this “thing” is), continues, the more difficult it becomes to imagine leaving Pete. We are forming a (gulp) attachment. I’m attaching, the kids are attaching – quick, someone get the barnacle knife.  It doesn’t have to be this way. I was and am, independent. If I can drag 2 small fries around the world, largely on my own, then I can return to Mother America and re-start our “real” lives. On my own.  Or rather, fortified by a small army of friends and family, pounds of cheap American produce, fish and baked goods, and gallons of Costco wine, I can do this.

The kids and I have hatched a plan: We’ll free ourselves from potential long-term entanglements with foreigners (i.e., anyone not living in the U.S.) by whinging them away. Finley, especially, has mastered the technique: “Ahhhh… I don’t WANT that lollipop! It’s yucky! It has crumbs. Fiona and Blythe have the good suckers! Wahhhhh!” Or, “Why do I ALWAYS have to close the car door? WHY? Fiona ALWAYS gets out first. I NEVER get out first!” And, if you have rug rats, you know this one (feel free to sing along) “I’m not gonna eat that. I don’t LIKE that. How many bites? How many bites?” Who wants to play/travel/dine to that eternal soundtrack? I’m whinging, but many times, I don’t want to hear the kids’ chronic complaints, and I’m their mother –half the unit that conceived, gestated and hatched these finicky fledglings. I’m their sole surviving parent, and many days I wonder whether I can take another hour or five of Whinge-Fest 2011.

I try to imagine how the scene plays out in the mind of The Boyfriend, Pete, who had nothing to do with the manufacture of these 2 small, bickering American small fries. Reality bites.

Rain has stopped and sun peeks from gray and white clouds, revealing the Coromandel Mountains. I wonder if I should continue pecking away at my netbook, if I dare reveal the issues rolling around my head like marbles on a tile floor.  Fact is, when I wrote in an earlier blog that I had met someone and fallen in love (and failed to mention, as my aunt asked, “Does he love you back?” to which the answer is a resounding, “Yes.”), I received heaps of “Atta girl,” and “Stay in New Zealand…” One of my favorite messages came from a church friend in Spokane, a writer who said, “Never let geography tie you beyond your heart.” I treasure this phrase and clutch it like a new-found coin.

All coins, including this one, have 2 sides: the bright, shiny side – inscribed with all I love about Pete: his wit, kindness, generosity, patience, affectionate manner, boyish face, thick brown hair, sparking eyes and mellifluous voice infused with smooth Kiwi accent. Oh, that voice. If I had to have a long-distance relationship, an over-the-phone relationship, I would choose that voice. Better yet, if I had the chance – indefinitely and in-person- to fall asleep and awaken with a single voice, I would choose that voice. Somehow, the person attached to that voice has chosen me. 

I’ve forced myself to flip the coin, to examine the “B” side. It contains the fine print - terms and conditions of the prize you’ve won. The “catch,” as it were. Because, as you know (if you’re over age 10), there’s always a catch, or 2. Or, in my case, 100,000.

Before I continue, you need to know I don’t write this callously or with intent to harm. In fact, you wouldn’t be reading this at all if the subject of this essay – Pete – had told me he’d prefer I not publish this account. Normally, I don’t allow sources to preview my stories. It’s the old reporter in me, not wanting a third party to influence tone or content. In this case, I’ve hog-tied my subject and shackled him to the clothesline post in the back garden. That’s consent, right?

I have 100,000 reasons to run from this love. The Boyfriend decided, years ago, to give up a successful career in sales and marketing to pursue his life’s dream of becoming a pilot. He tried the usual route, attempting to enlist in the Air Force. He disclosed he’d had a health issue that had since resolved and was unlikely to ever occur again. Farewell, Air Force. Hello, student loans. 5 years and $100,000 later, he meets an American widow (uh, me). At this writing, the hero of our story is handsome, charming and way beyond his Kiwi gumboots (galoshes) in debt. Pete has told me he “did everything backwards.” He said, “I left my mates in the dust when we were younger, in terms of finances. I had the house with the white picket fence and a good career… then I decided to return to school to become a pilot…I’ve tucked myself away the past 5 years during my studies, and have avoided serious dating. I didn’t want to bring my debt into a relationship.”

In a past life, Sean and I were smug about our debt-free-but-the-reasonably-priced-house position. Sean paid for university through a combination of soccer scholarships and employer subsidies. I took the easy route, choosing instead (yes, a joke) to be born into a family with the means and desire to provide most of the funding for my education (In my defense, I handled room and board by working in a chili restaurant called Skyline, the cumin/cinnamon scent of which I’ll never forget and probably still harbor somewhere deep inside my pores). While debt may be American religion (i.e., we worship at the altar of “If I want it now, I’ll get it and pay for it later, no matter how large the expenditure or how frivolous the object”), it was a philosophy to which Sean and I did not subscribe. Credit cards: Paid in full each month. Cars: Save and buy used. Debt, in our house (except for the house), was a 4-letter word (as an aside –a note of thanks to everyone who raised money to keep us out of debt during Sean’s four-and-a-half months in hospital. It meant more to him, and to us, than you could know. How’s that for no family being an island?).

 

And here I am, upside down at the bottom of the world, with someone who not only is NOT an heir to a New Zealand property dynasty, or self-made millionaire, but essentially in financial free-fall. I’m pretty sure Sean would’ve sent me a Lotto winner. Hon – hello? What were you thinking? 

I’m thinking debt’s still not a deal-breaker, even though part of me (the tiny speck, the single cell inside my brain able to crunch numbers or create a spreadsheet) says it should be. I love Pete from the tips of my paint-chipped toes to the top of my flat-ironed head of hair, 7 days a week, 24 hours a day, completely, sweetly, joyfully. But I’ve never believed love is enough to sustain a relationship.  You think love is enough? Ask the 50% (or whatever the true percentage) of American couples who divorce. I bet they thought love would supersede money problems, family feuds, religious differences, infidelity, or addiction to drugs, alcohol, work, gambling, ritual goat sacrifices… Guess what? They were wrong. Their lawyers are getting richer by the nanosecond. Miscalculate when you have only yourself to consider. You’ll recover. Miscalculate when you have children, and you’ll help them recover for the rest of their lives. You could also help their therapists make yacht payments.

You can’t strip the gamble from love. We make our decisions with the data in front our flawed, human faces. We source that data from partners who may or may not be honest, either with themselves, with us, or both. I lost my One Great Love, not due to miscalculation or deceit, but bad luck. I asked myself, during long hours of waiting at the hospital, while Sean was sick, whether I’d chosen wisely. The man in the bed, my husband, was unrecognizable. He lay bloated with 20 extra pounds of IV fluids, purple from a flesh-eating bacteria and drugs designed to save his life, and was reliant on machines to filter his blood, to breathe, to live. Sickness burst into our home like a gun-toting thug wearing a balaclava. He stole from Sean what made him a husband and father – vigor, humor, ability to care for children, earn a living, good looks. If I peered beneath the veneer of quotidian acceptability, would I still say I’d made a wise decision, joining my life with Sean's? Eventually, he came off machines, and most of the mind-altering drugs and started talking, even joking again (Sean's first words after his ICU team pulled the ventilator tube from his throat were, “They’ve been jackin’ me around”). He spent hours re-learning to eat, stand, dress himself, walk… He displayed more strength and courage than any TV superhero. Indeed, I’d chosen well. Sean was goodness, kindness, patience personified. Even sickness couldn’t steal that.

My joy and my dilemma is I see similar qualities in Pete. Goodness. Personified. I listened the other night while Pete tried to negotiate Finley to sleep (Finn could broker Middle East Peace if he thought it would buy him an extra hour of awake time at night – the kid has hates going to sleep as much as George W. Bush hates broccoli). I sat in the next room, having given myself a “time out” to keep from strangling Finley after my 6^th effort at putting him to bed failed. Pete didn’t know at first I was listening. I heard the whole exchange. Finley told Pete, “I need water. I’m STARVING.” Pete said, “No, Mate, you’re just stalling. Your mum wants you to go to sleep. Come on, Mate.” Pete eventually got the water, and sat with Finn for 5 minutes while Mr.-Never-Want-to-Sleep drifted off. I inhaled deeply and said a silent prayer, thanking God I’d met someone with reserves of patience far deeper than mine. 

My point is, Pete’s a good egg. A very good egg. A 14-carat, diamond-encrusted, nearly-ready-for-take-off-egg.

I’ve told the other significant man in my life, my dad, about Pete. Apparently, Dad hasn’t read this blog lately, because his advice was, “Take it slow. Play hard to get.” Slow is tough when you’re 40 and you know (or think you know) what love is. It’s a little like being an experienced botanist: When you find that special flower, you don’t have to consult your manual to learn its name – you’ve seen this flower before. You identify it from experience. You could be wrong, but you’re 99% sure it’s a rosa foetida and not a rosa laevigata. Playing hard to get? As another widow told me about her relationship with a new man, “…We have both been in long term relationships and didn't want to play any games. I didn't want to question, does he like me? Or do I have to play hard to get…”

 

 Life’s too short for dating games. But, in essence, I am hard to get. “I’m returning to my home country in 9 months” is about as catch-me-if-you-can a statement as you’ll find. Dad also told me there were “…plenty of Petes out there… maybe you could date a doctor from the Cleveland Clinic…” 

Maybe. Maybe not. I have a theory, if I’d plopped the kids and I in Spain, I’d be dating a Spaniard. If we landed in France, I’d be dating a Frenchman (or a Brit, because the “Bloody Poms” are everywhere). But Antonio is not Pete. Neither is Jacques. Pete is Pete, and I adore him. It’s like we’re tuned to the same radio frequency. We are, as they say, simpatico. On the same wavelength. Even Wikipedia can’t define this one. 

e

I got Skyped the other day from a good friend I’ve been meaning to call for months. Jean-Marie and I have known each other since I was a 17-year-old exchange student in his home country, Luxembourg. We’ve seen each other through 2 marriages (his and mine) births of 4 children, (each of us has a girl and a boy), the death of his father, mother-in-law, and the loss of my husband. We meet once every several years and catch up over piles of Luxembourgish meat and potatoes and liters of French wine. Together, we’ve pleased our palates and pickled our livers. Jean-Marie, in true Luxembourger style, is methodical, thoughtful and precise. He’s the big brother I never had. I told him, during our recent conversation, about Pete. “I’m dating someone,” I said. “Wait,” said Jean-Marie, “My English – I may not understand – is this a MAN you’re dating?” (Jean-Marie, by the way, speaks perfect English). I told him, “Last I checked, he was a man.” We laughed. Jean-Marie said, “I don’t want to tell you what to do…” a common preface from someone about to dispense advice. 

“If opportunity falls on your head, don’t spoil it,” he said. “If you feel good, you should go ahead. You have lots of experience – you’ll go on with things with more care. Why not explore? You and Sean’s dream brought you to New Zealand. The fact this man is like Sean – I don’t want to go there and say it’s a sign – but you can’t ignore it.” I told J-M about the “B” side of the coin, the debt issue, which I likened to $50,000 Euros. “$50,000 Euros is not cheesecake, but I think working for an airline, he could recuperate that quite fast.  You have 20-30 years – you’re still young.”

I told J-M this was the time in my life I should most value security. Isn’t starting over, with heaps of debt, for 20-somethings? Jean-Marie said, “On the one hand, you’re talking like an old lady. I don’t want to push you, but if this should work out, you could have a job in New Zealand in media, a job that’s accessible to you. Yes, there’s probably someone in America that could match. Finding that person is not so easy. 40 years old? With 2 kids? Your opportunities are quite small” (for the record, this line of reasoning ignores one of my main tenants, that an independent life is preferable to one with someone who’s not a match).

Jean-Marie continued, “Joao (a mutual Luxembourgish friend and whip-smart attorney) would say – even if you would go to Spokane in March – take everything out of this relationship – not with the intention to abuse or offend, but I think you should go ahead…” I told J-M I knew exactly what he meant, because Pete had said it himself: “Whatever we are to each other, or will be in the future, I want us to enjoy each other’s company as much as we can in the moment.” My thoughts exactly. This is why I’m not afraid to love – completely, without games or pretense. Even if, (as they say in New Zealand) it all “turns to custard,” Pete and I will have had the satisfaction of knowing we’ve loved each other as fully as possible in the time we’ve had. It’s like the Dean of my home church, St. John’s Cathedral in Spokane, told me when I asked him, during my own health crisis, how to make the most of our short time on earth. He said, “We can only love as much as we can love in one day. That’s all we can do.”

Jean-Marie continued, “Dawn, go ahead – you’re doing the right game. It’s an open game with open cards. You’re on the right path. If it stops this weekend, or at Christmas… it’s still a beautiful thing. Leave every door open so if you want to stay, or return, you can. Even if this finishes after half a year, you will not be disappointed. It won’t be easy, but I think it’s fair. Profit [“profiter” in French means “to make the most of”]. Profit doesn’t mean abuse – you deserve this. Life should be about love.”

I run headfirst into the last statement time and again. Last week, a parent from the kids’ school died at age 48, just 10 days after being diagnosed with cancer. Chris was the same age as Sean when she died. She left behind 2 young boys and a husband. The week before, my dad told me one of his friends was diagnosed with an incurable brain tumor. Doctors have estimated Scott has maybe 2 months to live. There, but for the grace of God, go all of us. These gone-before-their-time souls fly as canaries in our coal mines, warning us of the danger of taking a single breath for granted. If I knew I had 2 weeks left, what would I do? I’d spend the time with Pete and the kids. 2 months? Same answer. I already miss one man – one who’s dead. I’m asking whether I’ll allow myself to miss a man who’s alive. Could we spend 2 months apart? 2 years apart? As my flatmate, Amy, has said, “2 months? You and Pete can’t go 20 minutes without texting each other.” (this is an exaggeration, albeit only a slight one).

I’m going to wrap there, without giving you (or myself) an answer to this dilemma. What will I do? I don’t know. In fact, Pete may discover 2 whinging small fries and their impatient, slightly neurotic mum are more than he can bear. Or, we may split due to differences in the practice of religion (I do; He doesn’t). We could discover all manner of peccadillos and idiosyncracies about each other: Maybe he sacrifices goats in the back yard; runs an international blow fish smuggling ring; or worse yet, leaves the cap off the toothpaste. Perhaps he’ll run when he discovers my obsession with white teeth, clothes dryers and penchant for central heating (NZ has a paucity of the last 2 items; I’m not sure whether peroxide whitening strips are available here).

I’ve learned to live with ambiguity and have a degree of faith time will provide more clarity. For now, as my Luxembourgish friend said, it’s “open game, open cards.” And an open heart, to love as much as I can love. Today.

Born-Again Runner

Born-Again Runner

After the half-marathon at Mt. Maunganui

"I don't think I can do this anymore," said the sweaty, overweight, 50-something woman wearing a pink t-shirt. I passed the woman and her friend as I ran the Mount Joggers half-marathon. Was she walking the 21 kilometer (13 mile) course? Trying to finish the 10k (6 miles)? I couldn't tell, but I remembered the old saying that goes something like, "If you think you can or can't do something, you're right."

So much about a race – the running race, the walking race, the human race – is believing you can do it. Then mobilizing your butt (literally) behind your brain to complete the action. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot...(or, "lift foot, raught foot" is how it sounds to my American ears here in New Zealand).

Trying, post-race, to stretch the sore back

Despite a strained, sore back (following an overzealous first attempt at squash with The Boyfriend in the week before the race) I showed up for the 25^th annual Mount Joggers and Walkers Half-Marathon, held each year on the Queen's Birthday weekend (a national holiday). Yes, I considered bagging the race, but was pretty sure I could at least walk/run the entire course after a massage with Jaye, physical therapy (called "physiotherapy" in NZ) with Michelle and a healthy dose of pharmacist-only medicine called Voltaren (diclofenac potassium). Oh, and The Boyfriend, Pete, played the starring role in my pit crew, watching Fiona and Finley during the race. It took a Kiwi village to tow me to the start line. I remember reading a book about running before my first road race: the Columbus, Ohio marathon (3:40 & change finish, thank you very much), which spouted statistics for percentage of runners who crossed the starting mat and later completed the race. I can't recall the stat, but the gist of it was "Show up and you'll finish." Just show up.

I checked in at the Mount Maunganui Surf Club, along with 1,300 other entrants. The morning bloomed with white-out hazy sunshine and warm, humid air. The combination contrasted the previous 2 days' weather, when skies opened, rain bucketed and winds smacked palm trees upside their spiky, green heads. It was Mother Nature's Sweet Sunday Surprise: Mama said, "Hey, everybody – just kidding about those dress-rehearsal monsoons for this year's race. You had it bad enough last year. I'll let you run without rain splatting your face and body at a 45-degree angle. Now get out there and kick some ass."

Finley, my 5-year-old, was not race-ready. Before we'd even left the house at 8:30, he'd cranked into full-on whinge mode: "I'm HONNN-GRY! Can I have a snack?" Never mind he'd eaten a bowl of rice bubbles and Big Bugs 'N Mud a half hour ago. The whinging worsened en route. My kids have chronic, severe car-induced thirst and hunger. The moment the car door slams, they chime, "I need some water!" or "I'm STARRRR-ving!" Oh, children, are you oblivious to the effort your mom's about to undertake? Yes, completely. Of course. The ever-patient Pete tells me, "I'll drop you off at the Surf Club. You just get yourself sorted. I'll park the car and bring the kids up." Sweet Pete. Saint Pete.

Fiona and Finley snack and wait

Pete & co. find me 10 minutes before the race's start. Pete bestows a good luck kiss, and the kids loop their strong, wiry arms around my neck and shoulders. "I hope you win, Mommy. Are you gonna win?" asks 7-year-old Fiona. I reckon (Kiwis say, "I reckon," in lieu of "I figure," or "I think,") I've already won. I've been flashing back to my last half-marathon: October 11th, 2009, in Spokane: Sean lay in a hospital bed on the 5^th floor of Sacred Heart Medical Center, recovering from Necrotizing Fasciitis, multiple surgeries, skin grafts, kidney failure and about 27 other catastrophes that might befall you if you're 110 years old or extremely unlucky (Sean, at age 48, fell into the latter category). We were supposed to travel to the middle of Washington state for a different race, but Sean had gotten sick and plans became something to sneer at, not make. No travel, no family overnights. But I could still run. Those miles, mostly through my neighborhood, sometimes on a treadmill in our basement, kept brain cells from shooting through the top of my head like a geyser. Every step cradled my fragile, leaden heart. I couldn't heal my husband, but I could swing one foot in front of the other. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot.

Before the Spokane race, I hadn't run a half-marathon since shortly after Fiona was born, in 2004. Sean and I ferried our then 9-month-old to Victoria, British Columbia. Sean wheeled Fi along the course, surprising me a couple times during the event. I never knew where my husband and precious babe would pop up."Go, Mommy!" Sean would shout. The knowledge my husband and daughter were out there, somewhere, helped quicken my pace. After an hour and 41 minutes, I chugged through the finish chutes, into my waiting family's arms. Such joy. Pride. Relief. 

I flew solo among hundreds of runners at the Spokane half-marathon in 2009. A friend or sitter watched the kids somewhere – I can't recall who or where, and I'm hoping I expressed appropriate gratitude at the time. I drove myself to the start line and prayed, simply, to finish without crying. Racing can be intense – there's adrenaline, effort, sweat, endurance – a witches' brew of emotional soup, swirling inside the cauldron of your head. Add a sifter of stress and the soupcon of sorrow that accompany a critically ill husband, and running becomes a need, not a want. I needed to run that half-marathon. So, buoyed by a bevy of songs my former TV news camera guy (and comedian) Charlie had loaded onto my iPod, I ran. Up and down the hilly course. I ran. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Keep going. Don't stop (while Michael Jackson, on my iPod, sings, "Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough."). Whatever you do, don't start crying, because you may not stop that, either. You cannot cry during a run, especially when sobs crescendo into an angst-filled wheeze. I knew, because I'd broken down a couple times during training runs.

I held it together all 13.1 miles of Spokane's half-marathon. I emerged into sunshine and green grass of Riverfront Park, collected my finisher's medal and moved through the chutes. I walked to a hillside, away from other runners who were happily greeted by friends and family – smiling, hugging, posing for pictures. While I saw and waved to several friends, no one awaited me at the finish. I didn't ask. They didn't offer. Entering the race was something of a last-minute decision on the heels of a single 10-mile training run. Yep, I can run a half. After all, it's just a half. Not a whole.

After 13.1 miles, I was utterly alone. And now that the race was over, I could cry. I collapsed on the grass, still wearing my race number and medal, and bawled. They were the asthmatic-like sobs of someone who hasn't lost a race – but lost her life, instead. The old life. In these post-race moments, grief and anxiety supplanted joy and relief. I still had pride. I was proud of the fact I'd finished this course in respectable style (I'd later learn I placed 8^th in my age group (35-39) with a time of 1:47). I would never run this particular race, at this particular time, ever again.

My post-race party took place in Sean's sea-foam green and white hospital room. He was still taking heaps of morphine for pain and told a nurse, foggily, "My wife just ran a half-marathon. She's a champ." I was pleased Sean remembered the race, since his memory had been short-circuiting, tangled in a haze of drugs and procedures. "You can watch the next race," I told him, "...when you're better. I missed seeing you there. I had no one at the finish line."

This is not 2009. This is 2011. It's like I'm running my first race ever. It's a rebirth. I'm a Born-Again runner in New Zealand. New country, places, faces. A new life. New love. Maybe most importantly, new shoes. The holy grail of running gear – flash footwear. Oh, yeah. My bright pink Adidas trail runners ($150 U.S., bought here in NZ for about one-third more than I'd normally spend on "good" running shoes) carry me through a slow start from the Surf Club, down Marine Parade in Mount Maunganui. I settle into a pace (As my last boss would say when I asked him how fast he expected to run Bloomsday in Spokane, "At a pace. My pace"). Time to find my pace. I start with a mate from the Joggers club. I wonder, initially, if I can keep up. Damn sore back. What was I thinking, playing squash for the first time, just days before the race? Maybe heavy breathing or sore legs would overtake the strain below my left ribcage as the malady du jour. Maybe Tony Soprano would send one of his mobster minions to club my kneecaps? What we need, Houston, is a distraction. Crank the volume on the iPod. Pete loaded songs last night from the mix CD he'd created containing tunes I've heard on our world tour. The Pacific Ocean's churning on my left, apartments, condos and million dollar homes sit on my right, as Katy Perry sings California Girls: "...Sipping gin and juice, laying underneath the palm trees..."

Mmmm.. gin and juice. That could make a nice post-race drink. I don't even like gin. I'm highly suggestible and getting thirsty after just a few kilometers. At 3.5 kms (about 2 miles), we reach the turn-around point. Marine Parade, while scenic, is FREAKIN' LONG. We'll pound this stretch of bitumin 4 times: out and back, out and back. Crikey! (channel Crocodile Dundee whilst you say, "Crikey" and you've got the idea).

I reach the first water station near the turn-around and slow to a trot, grabbing a precious plastic tumbler filled with ice-cold aqua. A tall, flabby, sweaty, shirtless runner did not get the memo about continuing to move while watering. He STOPS AT THE TABLE! It's like someone's shackled this guy to the aid station, so he stands, nearly motionless, drinking water. I didn't expect him to full-on stop. My lips meet chest, a la Ben Stiller in "There's Something About Mary." You know the scene? The one where Ben's playing basketball and smashes his face into some big sweaty man's naked pectorals? The act unfolds in slow motion. Now add the smell of ripe chest, armpit sweat and salt, and you can imagine the snout-full I got. Ewww. Thankfully, that rank odor is soon replaced by a pleasant, familiar smell: someone inside a house on Marine Parade is cooking bacon. I really like bacon. I wonder which kind it is – the thick, middle back slab popular in New Zealand, or the rare piece of "streaky" (American-style) bacon you can buy for twice what it costs in the States. It's hard to get decent breakfast pork around here.

My thoughts drift from bacon to black socks just after the turn-around. I spot a familiar figure ahead. He's wearing a Mt. Joggers blue t-shirt, plaid board shorts and what I can only imagine must be his lucky black socks. OMG, it's Black Sock Guy (BSG)! He's one of the few men who run with the Joggers Tuesday and Friday mornings. He always wears black socks and always sounds on the verge of hurl. Actually, I did see him spew once during hill repeats on the Mount. I try to keep my distance, but it seems BSG and I are linked in some kind of cosmic sympatico pace. I shuffle behind another runner and click through the playlist on my iPod. Here's what I need - Rihanna:

"Want you to make me feel like I'm the only girl in the world
Like I'm the only one that you'll ever love
Like I'm the only one who knows your heart
Only girl in the world"

Oh, Rihanna – I know exactly where of you sing. Only girl in the world. Got that.

Now I'm in a groove – pumping my arms a bit faster, letting the music and my flash trainers carry me past the Surf Club, towards Pilot Bay. I can feel them- the running gremlins have flooded my head. It's not often my moderate's mind and road-weary body allow the gremlins to cross the moat and invade my brain. The crazies whoosh through a narrow passageway, giggling, burbling and pinging the sides of my cerebral cortex. You go, gremlins!

Sentries of rational thought sprint from their perch: "Wait," they tell the crazies. "Calm down. You're only 5 kilometers in. You have another 16 kilometers to run, and you haven't even hit the hill yet."

Thanks, Kill Joys. No matter, I'll just relax and and enjoy the next song on my playlist:

"Yeah, we gonna ride, ride, ride
On a Saturday night
All the girls they just hating
Because they know we that type"

I saw Australian Jessica Mauboy perform that song in Melbourne, right before Oprah graced Federation Square. The kids and I squashed in with 50,000 other (mostly Aussie) folks trying to catch a glimpse of her O-ness.

"'Bout to get it poppin'
'Bout to take your spotlight
So we ride, we ride
On this Saturday night"

On this Sunday morning, walkers and runners of every stripe pound The Mall, the road parallel to Pilot Bay. They're kids as young as 10, or younger. They're adults past 80. They run and walk with earphones, poles and the occasional cane. Some of the senior runners sport sinewy legs that speak to decades of running hundreds, if not thousands, of kilometers. I notice the 73-year-old who leads the Mount Joggers beginner group, Graham, well ahead of me down The Mall. He's holding his race number. Good on you, mate.

It's a fact when you're running a race: You'll pass runners 20 years your junior. You'll get dusted by runners 20 years (or more) older. It's democracy in sport. No matter your age or size, if you got it, go for it. Just don't get in your own way, telling yourself, "I'm too old, too fat, too slow, too.... " You don't even need confidence. "Fake it 'til you make it." It's one of my mottos for life. If nothing else, it's helped propel me around the world with 2 small, whingy children.

"Cause baby tonight, the DJ got us falling in love again
Yeah, baby tonight, the DJ got us falling in love again
So dance, dance, like it’s the last, last night of your life, life
Gonna get you right..."

Usher sings the classic tale of love at a disco as we start the Mount portion of the run. The R&B singer implores me to "dance like it's the last night of my life." Substitute "run like it's the last morning of your life," or "live like it's the last year of your life," and I can relate. As I clamber onto the muddy trail for a short uphill climb, I think about how much life the kids and I have packed into our world tour. Myriad memories of our experiences coil like silly snakes into an impossibly small can. How much can we stuff into our cylinder? Fiona and Finley can't know this yet, but I do: I've lived a million lifetimes the past 9 months.

We reach the second water station of the race on the Mount, and it's bottlenecked. Dozens of runners, 2 volunteers, 1 water jug. My throat is constricting from thirst, so I force myself to run in place while waiting for liquid relief. I drain one cup, pouring its icy-coldness down my throat. I fling another cupfull down my neck. Its chill surprises me. It distracts from my ailing back. For all of 5 minutes.

You can tell, during the climb, who's trained on hills, and who has not. I'm pleased as punch (or, "happy as Larry," as they say here – apparently, clams are quite melancholy in NZ, because no one says, "happy as a clam") I'm in the former category. All the hill repeats and Mount runs have trained my rodent's brain and giant's feet to KEEP GOING. I do not break stride. I do not need to catch my breath. Not yet. I increase my speed a fraction and click up the volume on my iPod as 80's hair band Ratt belts their one-hit wonder:

"Round and round

with love we'll find a way just give it time

Round and round

What comes around goes around

I'll tell you why..."

I'm nearly at the wooden livestock gate when my head spins. Dizzy. Vertigo. Uh-oh. Maybe I should dial down the Ratt, or decrease my speed. Or both. Dropping to the grass, amongst runners, walkers and sheep shit is not the ending I'd planned for this odyssey. "Are you okay?" Yeah, fine. I just had a case of Ratt poisoning. I'll be right in a few moments.

The dizziness passes. I charge the gravel incline, then cross a grassy plateau of sheep pasture on The Mount's north face. After about a kilometer on the hill, we gingerly pick our way down a steep, muddy slope while course marshalls wearing orange reflective safety vests instruct us to "be careful, watch out..." A tall, dreadlocked dude with frizzy dirty-blonde hair and a figure like Jesus Christ (scrawny, ribs showing) ignores the warnings and jumps 2 meters (about 6 feet) to the dirt and gravel track below. I catch him a few minutes later during an ascent. Only another half-kilometer before we – RUN THE ENTIRE FREAKIN' COURSE AGAIN. That's right. Another loop around. I start running on the wrong side of the tape before several spectators set me straight: "To your lift, to your lift!" (left).

I won't bore you with the last 10.5 kilometers. I will tell you I ran (slogged, pounded, trudged) the entire course, finishing (I just logged onto the website to learn this) in 2 hours, 2 minutes. It's a tortoise pace for me, a time that raises anxieties about getting old and slow (and, this is the first time my "official" finish was slower than what I thought I'd seen on the race clock). More than 2 hours for a half? A half? Pass the porridge and prune juice. Sigh. Pity party over. I am, indeed, grateful for the ability to run, even walk. Wandering the world, untethered to a hospital, a bed, to IV's and morphine and a dozen other drugs – these facts alone are miracles. I know this, even if I don't always act as if I do.

As I steam towards the finish, I'm not thinking about old and slow. I'm radiating gratitude. I've been gifted an undeserved grace: 3 people I love await me on the other side of the chute. It's the end of the first race of my new life, and loved ones are waiting. The thought, churning, along with adrenaline and memory like waves in a choppy sea, makes me cry. The sobs are not unlike those I heaved after finishing Spokane's half-marathon. My solitary race.

A man in his 70's, who I recognize from the Joggers club, hands me a banana and small coconut chocolate bar. I gratefully accept the offerings as I pour myself water and choke on tears. For a couple minutes in the bubble of post-race delirium, I let myself grieve who and what I lost – my husband, our family, our old life. I teeter on the brink of hyperventilation, which is not what I need. I leave the Spokane half-marathon and return to present tense, back to the land of "is," not "was;" "have," not "had." I am here.

Pete is here, too, and he's taking pictures of me in the finisher's tent. Thank God for sunglasses, because I applied eye makeup this morning, and I'm pretty sure it's streaking my cheeks. I move to greet Pete and the kids, giving each a sweaty hug. "I'm glad you're here," I tell them. "I'm so glad you're here."

Me & Pete

From the corner of my watery eyes, I spy a man wearing plaid board shorts and blue Mt. Joggers' shirt: Black Sock Guy (BSG) has made it through the finish chute behind me. He's breathing hard but still walking under his own power, and mercifully, not spewing. "Good on you," I tell BSG, and I really mean it. Good on me, too, I think, even if I was slow. Born-again runner. That's me.